


The Wax Between His Feathers

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Series: And So He is to The Other [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abuse, Attempted Rape, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Self-Hatred, Unrequited Love, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: 'So, when Feyre vanishes for good, he is there. He is the one who is there to catch Tamlin as he falls.The statue is shattered, Tamlin a ruin of his former self, but there Lucien is, the glue holding him together.'_______________Lucien does not know what loving a monster makes him, but it's too late for philosophical questions; He's already burning.





	

Lucien is fresh out of childhood when Tamlin takes him in. Childhood was a holy kind of place, full of warm mornings, late night giggling, populated solely by one charming girl. A lesser fae no less, untainted by the cruel courts of the high fae world. It was a kinder world, one he thought he’d left behind when he’d fallen in love, but the day she died he realised he’d been lingering all that time.

Now, childhood is truly dead.

He’s fled, unable to bear being in the same place as her icy corpse. Four days of straight riding before his horse dies of exhaustion. Two days of walking, then stumbling, before he too faints in the forests of the Spring court. He is swimming in and out of hallucinations when a golden sun of a man crouches beside him and checks his pulse. He squints up at this man, who’s shining, blonde hair is framed by a halo of sunlight. “You’re a mess,” the man says, and all at once he falls apart.

*

His first years at the Spring Court are spent nursing his grief, sulking, cloistered in his bad mood and broken heartedness. From the beginning, he knows he is exaggerating. He knew the girl barley six months, and his passion for her had been born all from the boisterousness of youth.

What unsettles him is his new master; is the fact he has a master, for one. Though his elder brothers were always the leaders, the commanders, the bullies, he is still unused to being someone’s shadow. Yet Tamlin has permitted him time to rest and heal before any duties are expected of him, and he is fiercely reluctant to accept them. What would his brothers say, if they knew they he, an heir, had become but a servant?

His sulking can last only so long, however. And worse, he fears what will come of outstaying his welcome. If rumours spread by the servants’ gossip is to be believed, his father has placed a price upon his head to be returned back home, his cowardly absence apparently bringing his family great shame. Well. If merely his leaving shames them, wait until they hear how he now bows to another High Lord.

The next day, he goes to Tamlin and requests to be bound to him as a courtier, forever and more, until the day the Summer Court freezes over. Looking down at him, Tamlin takes a moment and smiles. “Till Summer freezes over.”

*

And oh, how Lucien is good at serving. It is as if he were born to be another’s shadow. He has always been quick and clever, talented with the subtleties of court and gifted with calculating the progression of politics. Before, when he was alone, his knowledge was tempered by his morals, his deep seated terror of outshining his brothers for fear of them slitting his throat in the night if they thought him a threat to the throne.

Now, there are no brothers, and Tamlin’s moral qualms are far greyer than his own.

He is the best shadow Tamlin has ever had.

And stranger still, he adores it. Each mission or assignment brings with it new thrills, new challenges, and he solves them all as if it were as simple as breathing. Over and over he manipulates and bargains and threatens all in Tamlin’s name, and soon the excitement lies not only in the game itself, but in what awaits him after.

When he does well, Tamlin is there in his office, at the palace doors, in the gardens, wherever. When he does well, Tamlin praises him.

He is a child all over again.

He lives for that praise. His every breath is drawn to bring him one lungful of air closer to the next time Tamlin gives him a smile, claps him on the back, or touches his shoulder. “What would I do without you?” He asks, and the first time Lucien nearly cries.

What has he become? How has he fallen prey to this sculpture of a man, golden as the sun and thrice as fiery, more temperamental than any flame. Lucien is not ignorant of his temper, his spoilt nature, nor his heartless ability to turn a blind eye. Far from it; it makes him yearn for his rare compliments even more. This cold, awkward statue of a being. Dear Mother above, how he loves him.

And it hurts. It hurts worse than any grief over dead girls or pain from brotherly cruelty ever did. He is crushed from the inside out every day with the knowledge that he will never be loved back, and that worse, he has fallen in love with something so dangerous. This man would kill him if he ever found out he was even so much as capable of feeling this for a man. This man, who late at night after a couple of drinks has told him “You’re the one person I couldn’t live with out” would strangle him in a heartbeat if he ever dared steal a kiss. And some nights, he thinks it would be worth it. At least then the ache would be over.  

*

On Calanmai, Tamlin is out in the fields fucking one of the lovely ladies come to offer themselves to him, and there is Lucien, at the tree line of the forest. He is careful to hide himself from view, but to make sure he keeps the cave and its entrance in his field of vision. Makes she he can watch as Tamlin takes some faceless woman from behind.

Lucien hates no one more than himself as he touches himself.  There is nothing but disgust and a fucked up kind of love throttling his stomach as he clenches his cock and tugs. An urge plagues him, to shout at the crowds turned to watch the cave, to force them to turn and look at what the heir to the Autumn Court has become. Go tell my father what kind of a son he raised.

Yet he stays silent, as he has for four decades now. All that escapes is a pathetic whimper as he collapses against a tree, his knees buckling when he comes. “Tam,” he breathes as cum drips between his fingers. The girl his love is fucking cries out in ecstasy as well, though it speaks entirely of pride and nothing of shame. “Tam.”

*

Andras is heaven sent, an angel bestowed with the quest to keep Lucien alive. Or at least, that’s how it seems, for Lucien knows without him he’d be long dead by now.

Lucien’s infatuation is obvious to him the day he arrives at court, all easy smiles and kind eyes. Unlike so many of the high fae, his eyes do not lie. He is kind, foolishly so, and he takes pity on Lucien before his first week there is out. Lucien sees the same kind of longing in his eyes as he’s faced every day in the mirror. The poor idiot has fallen in love.

They fuck every day, more often when they can. It is a secret kind of affair, for Tamlin can never, never find out. Yet all the servants know, and the other courts quickly catch on, until one day Lucien receives a letter from his father denouncing him once and for all. He tears it up and throws it in the fireplace, crying as Andras takes him into his arms and makes slow, tender love to him in the warmth of the flames.

Each time he takes from Andras what he cannot get from the man he loves, he grows more and more sickened by himself. The endlessly patient, loving look in those brown eyes is nearly as painful as the love itself. “I cannot love you,” he tells Andras each time they begin to kiss, as if one day he might listen.

“I cannot stop loving you.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Exactly why I’m in love with you.”

Lucien sees Andras cry only once, and it is the only real sign that he too is suffering from this madness. He weeps in private, in the empty kitchens when the servants have all been sent out to celebrate the solstice holiday. “You cry like you’ve lost someone,” Lucien observes quietly from the doorway. Andras turns, red-eyed but still, his cheeks damp and stained.

“I have,” he answers, looking at the bruises on Lucien’s face, the purple blossoming on his delicate neck. “Long before I even met him.”

*

Lucien thinks maybe he could have loved Andras the night he is to be sent to his death. They lie together beneath the stars, beside the pool of water that is filled with them, naked and entwined warm and hot against the cool night air. Since sunset they have kissed and touched and whispered sweet affections to one another, but the majesty of the night sky silenced them, pinning them to the ground till all they can do is stare.

“I’m going to miss this.”

“It is beautiful,” Lucien agrees, recalling the constellations his tutor taught him, back when his purpose was to learn, not to divide and conquer.

“I meant you.”

By now, Lucien has only to smile bashfully in apology, and Andras chuckles darkly, calling him an idiot. He has been doing that more and more often recently, and Lucien thinks it might be a direct response to the gathering bruises he wears, but he likes to pretend he hasn’t noticed. It’s easier not to think about it.

“Look after yourself, Lu.”

“I think you need that advice a hell of a lot more than me,” Lucien says, surprised his voice doesn’t crack. Andras’s smile vanishes. He looks ponderously up at the sky.

“No. My death will be quick, for a purpose.” He stands, and Lucien knows their night of love-making is over. “Your ridiculous self-flagellation is the most futile thing I’ve ever witness. And it’s disgusting.” He looks back at Lucien, his smile as kind as ever, yet infinitely sadder than when he first arrived. “You’re disgusting, Lu.”

*

Once again it is just the two of them, he and Tam against the world, and for a brief moment Lucien thinks he might just stand a chance. They are the only two of their kind left free in the land. Surely that is enough to kindle whatever warped romance his heart longs for.

Yet then she comes.

Feyre is stubborn and guarded, and so unimaginably strong. No matter how Lucien quips or snips at her, she does not fall. Her soul burns through her skin, shining in the moonlight so that in the dark it is obvious even to Lucien that she is some kind of goddess. He would hate her, were she not so kind. He does hate her, sort of. It’s hard though, when all he has room for is his hate for himself.

The worst part is he has to watch them fall in love. He has to watch stoic Tamlin bumble around and try for her, try to be a better, kinder man, try to make himself amicable. If only he would turn his attentions on Lucien, he would take him flaws and all, drinking down his vile personality like an alcoholic led to the cellar. He would not make Tamlin try. He would let him devour him with all that destructive rage of his, until there was nothing left. He cannot think of a better way to go.

*

So, when Feyre vanishes for good, he is there. He is the one who is there to catch Tamlin as he falls. The statue is shattered, Tamlin a ruin of his former self, but there Lucien is, the glue holding him together. For he understands. Men like he and Tamlin are not made for the good and virtuous in the world. Tamlin flew too close to the sun and is paying the price, but Lucien is there to suffer the consequences, to take the dangers that Feyre has fled. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, nearly.

Ianthe is the one to ruin everything. Whilst Lucien catches, she is there to convince Tamlin he is not falling at all. With poison words and venomous plots she plants new fantasies and truths in his brain, and it becomes apparent that Tamlin is addicted. Now that he has seen what people can be, what beauty can lie inside a body, he wants it all.

So Lucien knows its over. He has no sunlight buried in his bones, and his organs he knows are ugly. It hurts to realise, yes, but so has everything else. And so he stays, and so he falls.

*

When Feyre is back, Lucien wonders how long it is until they all perish under the fury of the Night Court. The end is near, he can feel it, as he has always been able to feel the turn of the times. Though his heart might be mad, he has always been a realist.

How was he to know what would happen when Tamlin finally captured his sun, but it refused to touch him?

He is devoid of speech and thought alike when strong hands grasp him his chambers’ bathroom. The only sound he makes is a mewling whimper as he is shoved against the bathtub and bent over. “Tam?” The answer is given by rough hands splaying his ass, a hardening cock rubbing against his thighs. “ _Tam_.”

Thank the cauldron, he thinks, that he is crying as Tamlin fucks him against the tub. Thank god those tears will be read as horror and repulsion, rather than the unholy breaking of damns built over centuries, of the stagnant water of a sick, one-sided love affair bursting outwards as he is fucked, bloody and screaming in the dark.

It is only when he is left alone, sobbing and bleeding on the floor, that he bows his head and whispers, “ _I love you_.”


End file.
